Sunday, June 15, 2014

First Shot (1)

“Perfect
day for a war.”

It
was the kind of droll remark people who knew Leicester County's
retired Hippy Judge were accustomed to hearing from him, but he
wasn't necessarily among friends at the moment. His son, Blow, hadn't
recognized any of the other spectators within earshot. He glanced
quickly to either side of the Judge and Lila, but none of the others
seemed to have noticed. His father looked toward him and Blow saw the
familiar grin that might have been a sneer were it not for the
display of upper teeth and the merry laugh lines around the older
man's blue eyes.

“Were
such a thing conceivable, morally, that is,” the Judge added, his
voice more confiding, smile still teasing.

“Well
it's only a reenactment,” said Lila Moreau, the Judge's friend.

“That
is true in a sense, my dear, but it's really not even that. You see,
the actual battle was fought across the river around Yorktown. And
these folks, well, although they might well look the part with their
muskets and their colorful martial costumes, aren't even trying to
replicate the tactics used in the battle back then. If they weren't
shooting blanks at each other they'd really be no different than a
bunch of marching bands rehearsing for a Super Bowl halftime
spectacle.”

“Let
me ask you something, honey...” The voice came from the Judge's
other side but a sneering face leaned far enough around that Blow
could see its squinting eyes, gray mustache and balding,
conventionally barbered bullet head. The questioner's lip curled even
more as his glare rested a moment on his target's platinum ponytail
before homing in on the Judge's face. “If this bores you so much
why did you bother to come out here?”

The
Judge rotated his head to face his accuser, but Blow could still see
that the quirky grin stretched even further. He knew his father's
naturally large, aggressive eyes, which had intimidated many a lawyer
who'd appeared before him in court, were now fixed upon the other and
that the man likely was regretting his impulse to slip the “honey”
into his question.

“I'm
not bored and I'm not criticizing them, my friend.” The Judge's
voice was strong but cordial. “I was merely stating a fact. I do
find this highly entertaining.”

Blow
could see that his father's grin held steady as the man's sneer gave
ground, although the squinting eyes remained stubbornly locked on
target. Finally the man offered a quick nod and the face pulled back
out of sight. Blow heard a woman's chuckle in that direction.

“Why
are they over here, Dad, instead of at Yorktown?” Blow knew the
answer and he knew Lila did, too, but he lobbed the softball to give
his father a chance to show off a little, move the discussion onto
less contentious terrain.

“Park
Service won't let 'em shoot their muskets. Somebody was killed a
couple years ago at a reenactment.”

“Accident,
wasn't it?”

“Oh,
I'm sure it was. Would've been big news if it wasn't.”

“Hard
to imagine how an accident like that could happen. I mean if they're
not carrying any projectiles. Can't they inspect them to make sure
they're not carrying any?”

“You'd
think so, Son. I guess they just don't want the responsibility. A lot
of reenactors at these things. Not enough park rangers.”

Lila
piped up, “Do they have anybody inspecting them here?”

“Good
question, Lila. I doubt they have the resources to do it, either.
Maybe have the participants sign some kind of hold-harmless release.”

“Couldn't
the Park Service do the same thing? I imagine they're losing a lot of
tourist money with everybody coming over here.”

Blow
said, “Probly all about image for them. Congress is always looking
for excuses to cut budgets.”

Conversation
sputtered out as it became apparent the action was moving their way.
A block of soldiers wearing white pants, navy blue coats and
three-cornered hats had broken off from the main body of troops and
was marching across the field of corn stubble toward the side where
Blow, his father and Lila were seated on folding chairs they'd
brought from home. A smaller group of troops on horseback, swinging
sabers over their heads, rode toward the marching soldiers at a
gallop.

The
mounted troops' uniforms were fancier than the foot soldiers', most
noticeably the hats, which, on the horsemen, were so plumed with
feathers or fur they looked like the kind worn by drum majors or
Buckingham Palace guards. As the horsemen drew within shouting
distance of the foot soldiers the front row of infantrymen suddenly raised
their muskets and fired a volley in the direction of the horsemen.

Fire
blossomed orange amid clouds of blue smoke that burst from the ends
of the musket barrels an instant before a rapid series of concussive
pops reached the ears of the spectators alongside the field. The
horsemen wheeled and galloped away in full retreat as the second rank
of infantry fired over the heads of the front troops, who had dropped
to a knee and begun ramming new blank loads into their musket
muzzles.

“One
of their hats came off!” someone shouted. Lila saw it before the
Judge and Blow. She pointed at the black bushy beehive helmet lying
on the field behind the retreating horsemen. Then all eyes moved to
the hatless horseman. He was easy to spot among the others, swaying
in his saddle as if searching the field for his missing headpiece.

“Look
how red his face is!” came a voice further down the row of
spectators. A scream followed, and then more screams and shouts rose
into the cold October air as the hatless rider slid off his horse,
shoulders hitting the ground with an audible thump but then kept
bumping along under his galloping mount, raising even more dust than
the horse's hooves. “His foot is caught!” someone shouted.

Blow
could see that one of the white-clothed legs remained in the grip of
a stirrup. The horse, evidently knowing something was wrong, lagged
behind the others, slowing and tossing its head in confusion.
Spectators rushed through gaps in the makeshift fence onto the field
where, continuing to shout, they chased after the riderless horse and
its frightful burden.

Several
children ran toward the fancy helmet, which was partially hidden by
the corn stubble. They slowed and crept forward cautiously as they
neared the furry black lump. One of the first to reach it was a girl
who looked older than the others. She leaned over it briefly, then
abruptly straightened and turned to the other children. Her hands
waved wildly before she put them over her face, covering a mouth that
gaped in horror. Her shrill voice resembled a fife when it reached
Blow and the others. It took a moment before he could make out what
she was saying. When he did a sudden nausea welled up from his
intestines.

2 comments:

Great read, Matt. Might I suggest you do domething similar with Custer's ladt stand from the Indian POV? If you havent already, read "Black Elk Speaks" he was 9 years old st the bsttle and libed to be nesrly 100.